Oddballs
by Helena Mariel
Summary: H/A Years come and go, but sometimes things take more than just decades to reshape and redefine. A look into the intricate relationships of one Helga G. Pataki. Set in a series of drabbles, following a main plot. Rated T just to be safe. (ON HIATUS)
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: **Hey, Arnold! belongs to Craig Bartlett. All characters and settings are fictional and belong to their rightful creator.

- -

_Football Head,_

So, there's this one moment early in the morning where everything's just... right, you know? The day hasn't quite begun, but already in motion... everything's pristine and fresh. You lay back on your pillow, eyes still bleary and heavy from sleep and your mind goes at about fifteen revolutions per second.

_'What will I do today? Who will I run into? I wonder if Miriam will even notice I'm gone?'_

You know?

It happened to me today. This morning, arms and limbs stretched out at my sides, too tired to move from bed. I heard the blaring and honking of the overpass, the yelps and barks of the strays probably chasing after the mailman (or Harold - the kid usually keeps dry meat his pockets _for days_.) And I thought about what I would do that day and guessed I'd somehow end up playing baseball at Gerald Field, because we're seventeen but we P.S. 118 kids still feud over sports like the Mets feud with the Yankees. I thought about who I would run into, and of course my first guess was Phoebe, but of course, Phoebe is just an extension of my body.

You were the second person that came to my mind. And for once in I don't know how many years, the thought startled me.

For just how long have I depended on you to be present in my everyday life? Like a by passer; someone that watches from the sidelines. But, then again, I can't really say your role has been exclusive to just playing spectator. Because, let's face it: you've been so much more than that.

I still remember the first selfless gesture I ever made, and not surprisingly, it was made for you. Remember that Christmas at the boarding house, racking out for clues on Christmas' Eve in search of Mr. Hyuun's daughter? I remember what I asked for that year: one pair of Nancy Spumoni snow boots.

I cried that night, watching your face across the room from a fogged, glassy window. I cried because for once, I didn't feel like Helga G. Pataki, that unibrowed, mean, bossy girl who talked with her fists and argued with her loud mouth. For once, I felt like someone much more approachable, much more malleable, and much more human. Better. And I laughed out so loud, by myself, as I was walking back to my house in just socks, because I'd run over to hand my boots to that grumpy, old man that searched for that girl and I'd been sick for weeks after.

Because I'm used to losing focus of things whenever you take me, unwillingly, on a new adventure. A new opportunity to realize, to overcome myself. And I have received many presents over the years - clothes, books, souvenirs, knick knacks and the like - but the best present I have received, and will ever receive was the self-acceptance you unwillingly brought onto me.

I loved you for that tiny umbrella on our first day of pre-school. I loved you for the cookie you shared whenever I forgot my lunch; double-fudge chocolate chips, because your grandma always made the best cookies, for the brush off my dress when I fell that once off the monkey bars and you pulled me up and dusted off all that sand. I loved you for that smiling macaroni face you gave me in second grade and I threw into the trash but pulled out and saved when you weren't looking. I loved you for the ice cream truck we nearly pushed over that one hot summer, for all of the snowballs and all of the weeds we pulled out to play at Gerald Field.

I loved you for all of the sonnets, the Arnoldo's, the poems, the Old Betsies, the spitballs, and the gumball shrines and half-eaten sandwiches (although, that's a story for another time - maybe when you come back to Hillwood and I can sneak into your room at night from those creaky, old emergency stairs.)

But, most of all, I love you because you're the odd man out, just like I'm the odd girl out, and two odds (in this case) do make a right. You and me. Rightfully wrong.

Odds and evens, Arnoldo.  
Yours,_  
Helga G. Pataki_


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer**: Hey, Arnold! belongs to Craig Bartlett. All characters and settings are fictional and belong to their rightful creator.

- -

_Pheebs,_

Remember that one time we went on that crock boat ride to Elk Island, looking for the prospect of treasure only someone like Tall Hair boy could possibly plant on our feeble, fourth grader minds? We were ten dollars poorer that day, and for what?_ Sure_, we uncovered an illegal penny counterfeit operation, but I mean, what nine-year old kid doesn't run into those kinds of situations?

What I remember most, though, wasn't the feeling of fatso Harold stifling my ribs against the muddy ground as we all laid in a heap, relieved because the cops had finally shown up and we were safe from those weirdo whack jobs. What I remember the most is how you were the first one by my side when I started screaming at the top of my lungs, because _Football Head_ and I ran into Brainy's creepy, wheezing noises and we thought it was that Wheezing Ed guy.

You started waving your flashlight like crazy, calling out in Asian, brandishing that thing like if it were some kind of club, ready to clove poor Brainy on the head. And I find it amusing, looking back to it now, because we've always been branded as sisters, but I just always imagined that people perceived me as being the oldest. And, for a long time, I felt like that also. Stronger_ (_**physically**_, not emotionally)_, louder, brasher; more out there. And I thought that being all of those things were the things that made me be in charge, as if by some unknown universal rule of sibling-like friendships. But, let's face the music, Pheebs:

_You've always been so much strong that me, in so many ways._

Like all of those countless times when you, in your quiet and reserved fashion, held me back when my unsatisfiable insanity seemed to call forth from the deepest pits of my stomach. You never spoke, but you were never quiet, either. Your eyes and that frown on yours always gave me the wise strength to admit that _maybe I was getting ahead of myself_, that I was losing the wits I so boasted about.

Like a dream-catcher, you always seem to filter out all of my wrongful thoughts and hectic ideas, only letting me hold on to the happy memories we've shared these past years. Only letting me hold on to safe dreams. And sure, who's to say I haven't had nightmares every once in a while? But, not everything is perfect. **Not everything is as perfect as you.** It wasn't as perfect back then, when I was trying to do in that Ruth McDougall chick and we ended up flying two hundred feet through the air on a broken bumper car and crashing into that weinner inflatable.

_It isn't now_, both of us searching for the same thing, just that... well, our rewards are tucked away in different packages, in different locations at different distances. But, we're still searching for that one thing that's been missing in both our lives, but mostly in mine, because you've always been composed and collected and you've known all along your prince in red clothing and abundant hair has been waiting by the sidelines, pacing away at the outskirts of that timid heart of yours.

Pheebs, you've taught me a lot about myself without having to teach me anything at all. Today, I am the woman I am mostly because of you and what you've said (and also, what you have failed to say.) Our senior year starts just at the end of this summer, and yet everyday that passes, I can see that small girl who taught me to draw and color along the lines, teaching me that _patience is a virtue that renders good fruits._ And, just as you've passed along some of your knowledge onto me, I will pass some of mine onto you:

_Love is the triumph of **imagination **over intelligence._ Mecken said that, and I guess it just means you can't dissect love into pieces, or try to find its hidden meaning, because it's not just a test you can multiple choice. Make the best of your prince charming, and let go of those inhibitions before it's too late for you.

Because, God knows it's already too late for _me_.

Friends, forever,  
_Helga G. Pataki_


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: **Hey, Arnold! belongs to Craig Bartlett. All characters and settings are fictional and belong to their rightful creator.

- -

There's a place rooted deep inside our souls, pitied against our own selfish inner demons, where it never rains but there's never any sun, either. And, in this place of grayscale monotony, our fears fester away like putrid meat and the flies come and they pick away at those fears and they just keep on pollinating until your whole being is just one huge walking piece of rotten meat.

"Helga, dear! You'll be late for school!"

And, there really isn't any break from the cycle you were born into. You were just placed there, centered to integrate into this lifestyle of waking up early, going through the same motions of **'**_Where's my backpack**?', '**I forgot we had homework**!**_**'** until all of your days become this big blot of watercolor and memories fade away between fresh batches of salty tears. But, of course, that never seemed to happen to me, because Helga G. Pataki never cries.

"I'm coming, _Miriam_!"

Except for right now, when I accidentally brushed the sleeves of my sweater against my cheek and I felt the cold moisture sticking to my skin, like an embarrassing sliver of evidence of my sensitivity, of my fear for that small place crawling with bugs and insects inside of my soul. I heard the shaking of my mint box, and popped one out, placing it beneath my tongue like a daily dose of rotenone.

I knew mints did not necessarily keep away qualms as well as they kept away bad breath.

'_Qualm... q - u - a - **l **- m. The l was **practically** silent.'_

The thunderous clacking as I went down the aging wooden stairs, the taste of slightly acidic burnt toast slathered with tarty butter, the warm confines of a woolly scarf, and the slam of a door somewhere behind me. I saw Phoebe standing by her usual spot, beneath a lamp post, her nose buried deep into another book about quantum physics. And, like every other day, I could not help but smile and then catch myself, searching the vicinity for any onlookers. And, of course, there was barely any foot traffic that early in the morning, and the moment was gone just like we were gone from the corner of 45th and 7th.

"Sleep well, Helga?" I could see the corners of her thin lips curve upwards, as if they were engaged in a private joke with her tongue and I could not help but grow satirically curious. The weight of the letters I had written over the summer, tucked away for a reason I still did not comprehend at the very bottom of my leather bag, seemed to prickle the back of my neck and I shuddered involuntarily. "As well as the next Joe. What about you, Pheebs? You seem especially vivacious this nippy October morning."

"Gerald called last night. We were on the phone for exactly five hours, fourteen minutes and fifty-seven seconds."

"Only someone like you could make an extremely long phone conversation sound like third base, _at the very least_." Not wanting to downplay her achievement, I patted her roughly on the back. "Atta girl, Pheebs. You'll get that six hour mark in no time." She smiled, and I suddenly felt better about never showing her the letters I'd written for as long as I lived.

It seemed like a long shot, but maybe (_just maybe_), everything would work out. My two best friends were dating pleasantly, and for as much as I disliked being the third wheel on an average of two and a half dates out of every three those two ever had, it was rewarding to see them together, like a pair of infatuated strangers you watch from afar, silently rooting for on account of you can't really root for yourself when there's no one next to you to begin with.

"He... he also told me Arnold called him yesterday."

_There's a place rooted deep inside our souls, pitied against our own selfish inner demons, where it never rains but there's never any sun, either. And, in this place of grayscale monotony, our fears fester away like putrid meat and the flies come and they pick away at those fears and they just keep on pollinating until your whole being is just one huge walking piece of rotten meat._

"He's worried about you, Helga. He says you've never answered any of his calls and that he's sent you packages, but never received a reply for any of them." And I thought of all of that brown package paper, of all of those boxes tucked beneath my bed, haunting me like childhood ghost stories about monsters that would claw their way from beneath that dark space against the walls covered with fading pink wallpaper, how they would bite off your toes, steal your dirty laundry because always I felt that he'd stolen my dirty laundry, that I had no chance to clean myself up before he stormed into my room and took everything away.

For the first time in fourteen years, I ran away from my one true friend.

Because, I **should've** told you I wasn't ready.

Because, I _could've_ told you I wouldn't be happy.

Because, I would've told you I can't live without you.

But, I didn't, Arnold.


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: **Hey, Arnold! belongs to Craig Bartlett. All characters and settings are fictional and belong to their rightful creator.

- -

When it was about you, it was always easy to lose my sense of judgment. When it was about you, I was no longer a sensible creature of analytical nature, but rather someone lost amidst the throes of her own self-impotence, immersed in rivers of overflowing patterns and flowers, colors that intertwined and I could only see your face, plastered to the back of my eyelids and every drink and every bite was you, your face and your essence alone. Those colors that would swirl deep inside my heart, those colors that would all blend into one true masterpiece were the colors that threaded us together that humid summer night; by the docks, remember?

_You said my heart was a kaleidoscope. _

And for once, I did not snort or try to fight off your compliments, I did not berate your impending sense of cavalry, and I didn't believe you'd insulted me or called me odd. For once, I did not shrug off your words, I did not call you names, and I did not turn my back on you or put up my walls with my defensive, critical sarcasm. You gave me the barest hint of a smile, and the shadows caught up between us and then everything burnt beneath the oranges hues of dusk.

Your eyes were liquid topaz, intriguing and provoking and I could only imagine what the lights were doing with my own and I silently prayed that my deep cornflower blue gaze would invoke emotion, that I would somehow seize your sense of attraction and I could only picture you engulfing the menacing space between our lips in one fluid motion.

Oh, how I would have enjoyed that warmth.

"What do you mean a _kaleidoscope_?"

"Oh, you know… it's just that it depends from which looking glass you choose to peer into your heart. Some people might see one certain pattern of figures and colors, but if you just have enough patience to tweak around a bit more, just a little more patience to try and understand you, something entirely new and entirely yours can be the result."

_Patience is a virtue that renders good fruits._

The creak of the fishing boats, rickety with age, brought me out of my stupor and I suddenly felt like jumping into the blue, just wanted to disrupt the slow, lulling motion of the water very much like he was altering the rhythm of my heartbeats. I caught myself smiling sheepishly back at him, as we both turned our heads and set our sights towards the horizon, a canvas streaked with blotches of magenta and lavenders. I felt an unwelcome radiance emitting from my face, and knew I would be blushing scarlet.

"Hypothetically speaking… what is it that you see in me, then? When you gaze into my heart?"

"What do I see in you?" He hummed, and I caught the amused glint in his eyes and suddenly, I felt parched; like the prospect of finding a real answer amidst his answer to my instigations would somehow rehydrate my very being, hope fed to me and I was starving, I was beaten down and starving and he held the cup overflowing with love over my head but I could not drink; _it was never enough!_

"You, Helga. I see **you**."

And I felt the turbulent waters stir and clear and that overflowing cup washed over me and I was drowning in recognition, dousing the fires that threatened to consume my sanity every single time we would cross paths and he was now my angel, guiding me through the valley of shadows…

"I see you, too, Football Head."

Your laugh, carefree and raucous, brought forth my own sputtering giggles and just like that, miles of silence crumbled down. '_How long have we known each other?', 'Twelve years, seems like yesterday we were kids', 'We're not __**that**__ old, Helga', 'We're old enough_**.**'

And our faces grew solemn, because I had brought out something we'd probably both had been trying to ignore; something that had plastered itself between our rocky friendship, feeding off of our fights and arguments and doubts and fears, like that putrid place inside each and every one of us, except there were no skeletons in our closets because we'd already dragged out all of them and the carcasses were lying there, in the open and the crows kept picking away at their eyes.

_You_ kissed _me_. Remember? Even though I'd wanted to kiss you first.

But I kissed you the second time.

And the third.

And, I confess to you, I liked how your lips looked after we kissed, because people would notice the swelling and they'd wonder who'd you'd kiss, but no matter how much they'd prod, you'd play it off and not say a word. Our eyes would meet across the room and we'd smile secretly, our own rendezvous', warm and tingly and passionate but then there were _too many of them_, we lost the sense of time and space and the nights and days were all blurred until our summer was nothing but whispers on your roof, cuddled by blankets as we stared off at the moon. There were hours spent just kissing, nimble hands exploring our anatomy, heavy breathing that penetrated the silence of your room, baseball games and dunks in the lake, fishing trips with your grandparents, extravagant and peculiar dinners with the boarders, and the world was _ours_.

The summer neared to its end, but neither of us wanted to let go; neither of us wanted to go on and then, it was all lost because _I wasn't brave enough to tell you that I loved you_.

And, I'm brave enough **now.** But you're not here, anymore.


	5. Author's Note

Hello reader,

Thank you so much for your positive feedback and the story favorites I keep receiving from time to time. It's been little over two years since I last updated and I offer my apologies, but I'd like to let you know I will be starting the writing process once again. I am hoping to have new material by April, so keep posted for the next chapter!

Best wishes,

Helena Mariel


	6. Chapter 5

Disclaimer: Hey, Arnold! belongs to Craig Bartlett. All characters and settings are fictional and belong to their rightful creator.

It was raining that day. I remember the walk from my house to the boarding house because it was the eve of the Annual Summer Festival and whole families were leaving their houses and joining the massive throngs of people holding umbrellas and roaming through the streets to look for weekend entertainment. More than once I was stepped on, pushed and nearly trampled, but for the first time in what seemed years I did not feel the need to scream or push back to release the terrible rage that has boiled inside me for as long as I can remember. Everything that harmed me was no longer haunting me because I had your smile to look forward to. That smile I miss so much.

The only thought I let myself harbour that rainy afternoon was the lovely vision of your face, disproportioned in that a cartoonish, endearing manner that I had always found so special. The shape of your thin lips as they spoke the words of acceptance I'd longed to hear for so many years. The sound of your laugh, honest and rich, as we remembered a childhood memory at P.S. 118 or sat, incredulous, to hear your grandfather's epic tales and your grandmother's crazy antics. The silly shape of that silly hat you still occasionally wear. It took me longer than expected to make my way across the crowds and the downpour had already started by then, the fat droplets resonating across the pavement. The smell of hot asphalt and the rain hit my nostrils and I caught myself smiling as I grabbed hold of the emergency stairs and climbed my way up to your room.

You said my name when you saw me and nothing will ever sound as beautiful as my name from your lips. "Helga." Your bedroom was unlit and my sopping blonde hair partially covered my eyes, so I couldn't catch your expression immediately. At first I only saw the fluffy, cotton towel with the blue print you liked so much being extended towards me. I reached for it and our fingers brushed against each other and by then my own eyes had adjusted to the dark and I saw an expression that both moved me and terrified me. I saw my adoration towards you reflected in your beautiful eyes as you helped me wrap the fabric across my shivering shoulders. And then we crossed the few feet that stood in between us and you wrapped your long arms around my slender waist and cradled me firmly against your warm body. You smelled like freshly cut grass and cold lemonade. Our kisses were passionate, yet not intrusive. Your hands caressing my skin were the best feeling I'd ever had in my life and I could tell you liked the feel of the goose bumps you were causing on my skin. I felt your hands as they pushed back my long hair back from the frame of my face and travelled lightly down my back and my hipbones.

The rainfall pattered lightly on the glass roof and drowned out the sounds of the city so it felt like it was just us two in the whole world, left alone to share an eternity together. Lightning pierced the evening sky from a distance and the droning melody of rain concealed my trembling voice as I whimpered your name out helplessly. "Arnold." I've always been helpless to you, as if it were somehow imprinted in my DNA to become a trembling mass of limbs and faltering bravado in your hands. Yet I would keep falling willingly into your hands forever if possible, because I was certain there were no other hands that I would ever want on my body ever again. I am still certain of this today, no matter the distance that might divide you from me.

I open my eyes and I am no longer in your room and between your arms. I feel the salty tears pierce my eyes and the warmth of my cheeks as I come to be. Faded pink wallpaper, faded wood furniture, faded young girl. But something has changed and Phoebe's words resonate across my mind. "He's worried about you, Helga. He says you've never answered any of his calls and that he's sent you packages, but never received a reply for any of them." And I know what I have to do, so I crawl out of bed and reach for the gifts I had tried to ignore for so long. I end up randomly picking the oldest parcel you have sent me and inside I find the most beautiful kaleidoscope I'd ever seen, made of gleaming silver. And inside the box is a small piece of paper engraved with your peculiar handwriting: '_I see__you__, Helga.'_

And my heart is soaring across the sky and I know that I am no longer afraid. Because I see you too, Arnold. I've only seen you for as long as I can remember. I know I am no longer afraid of telling you I love you as well. I am only afraid it's too late. Before I know it I am opening another package and I know I am ready to tell you truth.

That I love you.

That I need you.

That I've let this secret break us apart.

But I won't let it happen anymore.


	7. Chapter 7

**Disclaimer: **Hey, Arnold! belongs to Craig Bartlett. All characters and settings are fictional and belong to their rightful creator.

* * *

It feels like you're bleeding all over the place, trying to force your aching heart back into its proper orifice. It's too shriveled up to stay in its place and it flops pathetically onto the floor, over and over again.

It feels like ripping off your skin straight from the bones, layer by layer, forgetting about what was there in the first place. They asked you to shed layers, didn't they? They asked you to shed away so new skin would grow in its place.

You're no longer yourself, if that ever even existed anyway, before you met one of them.

The ones that can't accept you for what you are.

The ones that pretend and try to convince you that change, in the name of love, is harmless and unsick. They're all lying, of course.

Change, in measurable quantities, is understandable and most show tolerance for it. I sure didn't.

I still can't tolerate someone trying to humiliate my primal essence. I still can't tolerate having someone trying to make me feel ashamed of what I am, who I am, where I am, why I am…

I'm far from perfect. I'm impulsive and I've been known to be selfish and cruel from time to time. I have insecurities like the rest of them, but they don't always interfere in their everyday lives like mine do. Love and passion draw senselessness from me. It oozes with some kind of volcanic furry, from my vocal chords, from the pores in my face, like lava being spewed violently.

It seeps out until I am forgotten amidst the miasma.

She's here, I can tell. There's no escaping now. The tears, sharp like fragments of glass, flow like rivers from my eyes. I'm no longer myself, because my hysteria is here with me, I am a weepy child again; too weak to make the tears run back up to my hurting heart.

She's impulsive and sensitive, and she enjoys hurting me. Sometimes I punch my thighs, or slap my face. So I punch the wall. I drag my nails across my arms and then the pain hits me. I am myself again, much more broken than before, drenched in my saliva, my tears, and a runny nose.

I don't know the ugly creature that stares back at me in the smeared mirror. The things I see aren't mine, red swollen eyes burning from my weeping, sinuses clogged, mouth reddened and full.

Loneliness can intimidate a person. I am not questioning it, as it has enjoyed bullying me for most of my life. I need to understand, however, that happiness does not rely on one person, but rather from within you.

To be able to feel happiness when there is no reason to, is to harbor a strong will inside your soul.

But, I've never thought of myself as being strong.


End file.
